


Christmas Party

by lasergirl



Category: Once Upon a Time in Mexico (2003)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-02
Updated: 2010-04-02
Packaged: 2017-10-08 15:50:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/77254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lasergirl/pseuds/lasergirl





	Christmas Party

_**OUATIM: Christmas Party**_  
**Title:** Christmas Party  
**Fandom:** _OUATIM_  
**Pairing:** Sands/El  
**Rating:** PG

Sands didn't usually attend the office parties, never had time to before, but the doctors were saying it was all part of the re-introduction process. Rehabilitation. He hated the word with a violent passion.

But this year, there was no secret mission in the Lower Americas, no country to overthrow, no laws to uphold. There was only the endless winter cold he hated and the painful knowledge that whatever was coming for him, it wasn't promotion. If anything, it was death, and that was really the only thing that concerned him now. Not that he would die, for that was a certainty. The only concern now was that he would die and never see it coming.

So he let himself be coerced by the rest of the Translation Office to scribble a "yes" on the bottom of his bilingual invitation (hah, the Braille translator had misspelled "Christmas" anyway, so what the hell) and polished his sunglasses for the occasion. He dressed up by putting on a tie; all his suits were black now, anyway, and all his shirts were white. The only person he trusted now was his tailor, and the man had insisted the tie went so well with his eyes.

Yes.

The plastic surgery had been a complete nightmare, worse even than the original eye-gouging incident had been. Or probably. He had been so high on painkillers through the whole set of operations that he remembered only a blur of sound and a constant pressure against his face. When he bumped into the walls at the private hospital, he would only laugh hysterically until the orderlies managed to lead him back to bed.

The results were probably worth it. He still couldn't see a damn, but at least he didn't look like a refugee from a circus sideshow anymore. ("Boy without eyes reads with his hands!") His eyelashes never grew back.

No one in the office knew the story, he was just inserted with a surface explanation and nothing more. His superiors shovelled him into a desk job, a division with medium security clearance, handling confidential source material that needed to be coded and translated. They taught him to read Braille and how to work the ridiculous computer that talked to him through a headset. He had a white cane. He got a new pair of sunglasses. And he hated every minute of it.

So the Christmas party was an interesting experiment, an opportunity not to be missed. (Did these sons of bitches even know what they were getting themselves into?) He had been the biggest, baddest wolf in the whole of Mexico, once. He was so far up the ladder that these poor office drones had probably never heard of him until he just showed up in his cubicle one morning.

Sure, these kids were all fine. This is where you go when you major in eight languages in University and get expelled because you built a pipe- bomb in your res room. The CIA snaps you up for its machine. You're too dangerous on the loose; they want you in a controlled environment, where you aren't going to do any harm to yourself or the system.

That's it, they locked him up in a padded cubicle and thought that would be the end of him. (Rehabilitation. Hah.)

So Sands went to the Christmas party with the people from his office; the girl who was always at the water cooler at 9:12am, the guy who drank too much coffee and spilled sugar all over everything, the secretary with the shrill voice who continually paged the supervisor over the intercom. They were in a good mood, he was not. The music was awful, and the punch too weak. Sands coerced the bartended into pouring him shots of tequila, which he lined up by touch along the bar. He worked his way through pseudo- karaoke renditions of "Jingle Bells," "Baby, It's Cold Outside" and that godawful cover of "Little Drummer Boy" by someone who wasn't David Bowie.

"Hey, Shel, what's going on, buddy?" He thought it was coffee guy, couldn't be too sure. A hand slapped him on his back, made him cough. Reflexively, his fist shot out and hit the guy in the kidneys. Really hard. Coffee guy doubled over, spilling his drink onto the floor.

"Jesus christ, are you okay?" he feigned concern but inside he was grinning, "I didn't see you there, man, you should take it easy."

"One hell of a punch you got there," Coffee guy wheezed. (Stupid bugger.)

"Come on, and dance with us, Shel," it was the water cooler girl, a little drunk, smelling of cigarettes and red wine. She took his elbow and tried to pull him away from the bar.

"Why? I don't like to dance," he muttered. These people obviously didn't understand the precariousness of his position. He was halfway through cultivating a perfect relationship with the bartender. It would end when the tequila bottle was empty, and he was unconscious.

But oh, no, he let himself be handed around from the cooler girl, to her friend, to the office assistant who worked with the coffee guy, and on and on until Sands lost count. People kept putting drinks into his hands.

"Hold this, I'm going to dance," and there would be another glass or bottle given to him. He would drink it, and move on. God only knew where the bar was now. If he hadn't known it was a closed party, he would have sworn someone kept bringing in hookers. Where were all these girls coming from? He'd be left alone for two seconds and someone else would snap him up and try to tell him how nice he looked in his suit, didn't that haircut just suit him and it was dark in here, so what was with the sunglasses?

And he didn't say anything. Just kept drinking until he was sure that if he still had his sight, he would most definitely be blind drunk. Staggered back to the bar finally, fingers numb, body unresponsive. Every bone felt like it was made of lead. His eyelids burning from the heat and cigarette smoke.

Oh yeah, he was the life of the party. He asked the bartender for a glass of water and drank half of it, until the roof of his mouth froze and his head throbbed.

When he touched his face, he felt hot wetness there, on the swell of one cheek. Not sweat, either. Fuck. He dabbed a fingertip in it and touched it to his tongue. Unmistakeable. He'd know the taste of his own blood anywhere. He'd practically drowned in it down in Mexico.

"Hey, Shel, you don't look so good," the secretary? He was guessing now, there were too many bodies and voices, too many sets of hands.

"It's just a scratch," he lied, wiping at his cheek with a napkin, "I think I fell somewhere." The napkin stuck to his fingers. Shit, that was a little more blood than he'd expected. (What, were his eyes falling out?) People didn't seem too keen on this party thing anymore. "Excuse me." And he pushed off the barstool, aiming vaguely for where he remembered the door to be. There were too many people in the way, too many drunken, stupid, dancing people

"What's the matter with him?" someone asked. Sands couldn't navigate. He smacked into someone full force, and as he fell, he felt his sunglasses slipping off his face.

"Fuck." The glasses skittered across the floor, well out of his reach. Now he'd really done it. He paused, winced, took a deep breath. Yeah, what the fuck. He drew himself up to his hands and knees tucked his hair neatly behind his ears.

"Excuse me, I'm trying to leave this fucking party," when he stood up, he knew they'd circled around him, starting to stare. He could feel the blood now, trickly hotly down his cheeks. (Oh, the plastic surgeon didn't say any fucking thing about THIS now did he?) The awful christmas tunes continued in the sudden silence. "Yeah, now would one of you assholes mind calling me a cab?"

So it probably didn't work out as well as it could have. He was pretty sure Christmas parties weren't supposed to end with bloody handprints on some woman's dress and bruises your hands and knees. But they sure would look at him differently after New Year's. Oh yeah. He was sure they would, even if he couldn't see them. And in his head, Sands told each of them "Fuck You" before he torched the place.

**

Sands twitched in his sleep and rolled over, breathy swear words spilling from his lips. El nudged him awake gently.

"Wha-?" Sands muttered, half-raising his head, face hidden in a curtain of dark hair. El swept it back from his face and laid kisses on his empty eye sockets.

"You were dreaming," he said softly, "Merry Christmas."

"You have no idea."

Questions? Comments? Feedback always appreciated.


End file.
